The Music of the Night
by ElsBells
Summary: Rachel is dapper and clever and kind, and Quinn never imagined she'd meet somebody at a place with light-up poles and a Broadway soundtrack. For Faberry Week: Meeting Frannie and Age Difference.


**The Music of the Night**

Quinn's only there because of her sister's tipsy friends, who'd all clamored some form of, "Wait, no, we have to stop here," as they sped along I-5 on the outskirts of Los Angeles. Frannie had glanced at Quinn in the rearview mirror, received only a skeptical shrug, and took the exit that would lead them to Rachel's Adult Entertainment, an attractive, neat building with palm trees out front and bright pink, stylized letters on the sign.

Quinn had quickly left her sister's giggling clump of UCLA grad students in favor of the bar, where she's working on a gin and tonic and a side of fries because she doesn't exactly trust the veal chop and lobster tail on the menu.

She's also trying to avoid looking at the mirror opposite the bar because it directly reflects the "entertainers" performing on one of the small stages behind her. She has to admit, it's an appealing place, despite the light-up poles.

The leather stool she's sitting on is clean and comfortable, like the rest of the furniture, and the dancers seem approachable, dressed in slinky outfits and costumes of all colors. Quinn catches sight of a topless woman in a mini-skirt on the stage behind her and coughs into her drink.

Frannie slides onto the stool at her side and thumps Quinn's back.

"It's a striking place, isn't it?"

Quinn can only nod, sipping her drink.

Frannie watches her for a moment – the only one of the gaggle of Bruins who's still sober – and says, "I'm sorry."

Quinn lifts an eyebrow and offers Frannie her fries. "For what?"

"I just…didn't plan on coming to a place like this. You look miserable."

Quinn chuckles, shrugging. She sees that topless woman in the reflection again and focuses on her plate of fries. "I don't think either of us had a say in it."

Frannie smiles and twists, and her blonde hair – about twice as long as Quinn's – stands out in the dim room. She notices the dancer behind them, the one causing her little sister to slump in her seat and avoid eye contact, and her smile widens.

She nudges Quinn and whispers, "Maybe you can meet a nice girl here."

"Not likely," Quinn mutters, sipping her drink again.

She's sure they're all perfectly nice, very friendly, but the likelihood of her being able to speak coherently to any of them is very low.

Frannie eyes her gin and tonic and wonders, "Is that your first one?"

Quinn nods. "Why?"

"I'm supervising you," Frannie shrugs, taking several fries. "That ID's not just a free pass to get drunk, Luce."

Quinn laughs genuinely. "That's _exactly_ what a fake ID is."

"No, it's a free pass to hang out with me."

Quinn frowns at her sister. "Why would I want to do that?"

Frannie doesn't respond, just rolls her eyes and smooths down the back of Quinn's mess of hair. Quinn sighs automatically and Frannie smiles.

"I'll try to get the girls to hurry up, okay?"

"Okay," Quinn mumbles through her mouthful.

Frannie glances back at their booth and says, "But we might have to carry Karen out of here."

Quinn's laughing when Frannie slides off her stool and kisses her cheek, leaving her with an affectionate, "I'll be back. Be careful, Lucy."

Quinn doesn't plan on leaving her seat any time soon, so being careful shouldn't be a problem. She slips off her black jacket and adjusts her dress, runs a hand through her hair. By the time she's finished her first drink, the topless dancer behind her has switched with a woman in a black corset and fishnets.

Quinn keeps her head down, cheeks flushed.

She barely registers a woman slipping onto the stool next to her. She's small, dressed in black slacks and a white button-down, a tailored blazer. Her dark hair is tied up and swept out of her eyes, and she's looking curiously at Quinn.

Quinn has nowhere to focus her gaze – she's finished her fries and looking straight ahead still isn't an option – so she meets the woman's bright brown eyes with a lifted eyebrow.

"Hey," she says politely.

The stranger gives her a bubbly grin. "Hi there!"

Quinn almost laughs.

"I'm Rachel," the woman says, offering her hand. Her grip is solid and warm, her breath peppermint.

"Quinn."

Rachel glances at Quinn's drink and her wide smile shrinks to one of genuine amusement. She props her chin on her hand and wonders, "How old are you, Quinn?"

Quinn doesn't miss a beat, despite Rachel's stare. "Twenty-one."

Rachel says nothing, just lifts both her eyebrows, still smiling.

The longer she stays like that, the more Quinn feels that her face is familiar. But Rachel's knowing, steady look is making her uncomfortable and she can't focus right now.

"How old are you?" Quinn counters.

"Old enough to own this place."

Quinn feels herself go slack-jawed for a moment, contemplating whether to run or not, if Rachel's called the cops or if she's about to be kicked out of a swanky, theatrical adult club that serves the best fries she's ever had.

Rachel loudly whispers, "Don't panic," and she looks so amused that Quinn's ears go red.

Where had Frannie gone? Quinn needs supervision.

"I'm twenty-five," Rachel clarifies. "You?" she asks again, clearly expecting the truth this time.

Quinn clears her throat. "Nineteen."

Rachel's still watching her, amusement fading. She looks like she legitimately cares when she asks, "Are you okay?"

Quinn's struck by that, the softness of her voice. If she _wasn't_ okay she knows she'd be spilling her guts for Rachel.

She manages to nod and gestures vaguely behind her, not willing to turn around. "I'm with my sister for the summer. She and her friends wanted to stop here."

"Do they know you have a fake ID?"

Quinn opens her mouth but just ends up blowing out air, unsure of how to answer. Rachel's warm hand lands on top of hers and it grabs Quinn's attention immediately.

"I just want to make sure you're okay," Rachel says.

"I – yeah – I'm not…" Quinn pulls a face at herself – she'd never had a stammering problem before – and it makes Rachel chuckle.

"You're not in the middle of a breakdown?" Rachel checks.

Quinn shakes her head, exasperated. "Right, I'm…not."

Rachel squeezes Quinn's hand before removing hers and flagging down the bartender, another woman Quinn can barely look at. She's in black lingerie and a cape, a dark hat, and it's so _Phantom of the Opera_ that Quinn abruptly realizes that all of the music she's heard so far has been from Broadway.

Understanding dawns, and Quinn is awed as she watches Rachel receive two sides of fries and a mango drink.

"Rachel Berry," she says, almost accusatory, and Rachel just smiles and slides a plate of fries over.

"Thanks," Quinn murmurs, and then, "Don't you live in New York?"

"I'm between shows right now."

Quinn narrows her eyes. "So you came to L.A. and opened a strip club?"

"It's not a strip club," Rachel scoffs, "and no."

Quinn agrees with the first part. If the entrees are as good as the fries then it's more of a flamboyant, entertaining, Broadway-themed steakhouse than a strip club. Quinn remains silent though, because Rachel's smile has dropped and she's such a fan that she hopes she hasn't messed this up.

"And I'm actually co-owner with my friend, Jesse," Rachel informs, dragging her fries through ketchup. "He did all the hard work. I'll go back to New York soon."

"I'm glad," Quinn says without thinking.

Rachel looks at her, lips quirked, and Quinn quickly clarifies, "I like – your shows are great. You belong on Broadway."

Rachel actually blushes then, and grins down at her plate in a way that makes Quinn smile proudly. She notices that Rachel has dimples, something she hadn't realized when she'd gone to see _My Fair Lady_ or _Rent_.

She's so engrossed that she lets herself glance in the mirror again, finds that there are now three topless women on the stage behind her, sharing an illuminated pole. She chokes a bit and averts her gaze immediately, but Rachel notices.

A smile spreads slowly across her face and she puts her chin back in her hand and ducks to catch Quinn's gaze.

"Does this place make you uncomfortable?"

Quinn licks her lips, afraid to look anywhere but Rachel's brown eyes.

"Because it makes me quite uncomfortable sometimes," Rachel admits with a laugh.

"I'm just not used to it," Quinn says. She takes another sip of her drink and Rachel doesn't stop her, probably because it's mostly ice now. Or Rachel doesn't feel compelled to stop her.

"Used to what?" Rachel asks curiously. "The atmosphere? The women?"

Quinn frowns. "All of it?"

It's silent for a moment, and then Rachel softly says, "You can look at them, you know."

Quinn cuts her gaze to Rachel's, which is kind and welcoming. She swallows.

"That's what they're here for. They're entertainers."

Quinn just nods and stuffs a few more fries in her mouth, hoping Rachel will drop it. But then Rachel tips her head, like a new thought's occurred to her.

"Maybe you have a girlfriend?" she ventures, half-smiling.

Quinn scrunches her nose. "My last girlfriend broke up with me by email when she met a nice French girl studying abroad in Paris."

Rachel gasps, leaning closer. "_No_."

"Yes," Quinn laughs, and Rachel's hand is on hers again, squeezing it.

"I'm sure you deserve better than that." Rachel remarks.

Quinn nods, mostly to herself. She flags down the bartender again – careful to keep her gaze on the woman's blue eyes – and orders a lemonade because Rachel's watching her with a raised eyebrow.

She's just identified the _West Side Story_ song coming from hidden speakers when Rachel asks, "Where do you go to school?"

"Yale, actually," Quinn says, watching her reaction. She's learned that this information can turn people off.

Rachel seems appropriately impressed though, and genuine when she says, "That's fantastic. Good for you."

Quinn smiles proudly. "Thanks."

"What are you studying?"

"Literature…" Quinn says thoughtfully, wondering how best to sum up her interests. "And theater."

Rachel nods expectantly, intrigued. She's so curious and attentive, and Quinn isn't used to it. She's charmed, and she pushes her plate of fries away and leans closer, clearing her throat.

"Like, did you know when Gaston Leroux published _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra _in 1911, sales and reviews were terrible?"

Rachel smiles and says, "But then it was serialized and illustrated in newspapers, and Universal picked it up and turned Lon Chaney into a star."

"I mean, I'd argue that _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ did that for Chaney," Quinn counters, grinning, "but whatever you say, Rachel."

Rachel looks pleased with herself. They're close enough now that Quinn can smell the sweet, mango vodka drink on her breath.

"I was in _Phantom_ in high school in Ohio, so I spent months learning everything I possibly could about it," Rachel says, almost embarrassed.

Quinn smiles at her. "That's dedication."

"My performance was legendary," Rachel says with a straight face. "If you asked me about _Little Women_ I'd be far more clueless."

"Noted," Quinn chuckles, and she realizes that she wants to ask about these things.

She'd like to talk about Rachel's role in _My Fair Lady_, and about _Pygmalion_ and George Bernard Shaw, and she's in a Broadway-themed adult club with three half-naked women swinging around a lit-up pole behind her.

She wonders where her sister's gone.

Rachel pulls a phone out of the pocket of her slacks and glances at it, then looks up at Quinn regretfully.

"Jesse needs me in the back," she says, not moving at all.

Quinn tries to mask her disappointment by sipping her lemonade.

"But maybe…" Rachel plays with the collar of her blazer, flipping it up and down. "I honestly just came over to make sure you were alright. I don't know what happened."

Quinn's lips quirk.

"But would you like to go out with me, Quinn?" Rachel says, stilling her hands. "On a date?"

There's a rush of excitement to Quinn's chest, her head, and she smiles fully. "Will we be surrounded by half-naked women?"

Rachel lifts an eyebrow. "Do you _want_ to be surrounded by half-naked women?"

"Not particularly, no."

Rachel laughs and shakes her head. "Then no, we won't."

Quinn's face is warm, her ears red, when she says, "Yes, I'd like to go on a date with you."

Rachel grins – a full Broadway, dimpled smile – and leaves the bar with Quinn's number in her phone. Quinn turns to watch her go, sees three topless women, and slides off her stool to find her "supervisor," Frannie.

…..

Rachel calls in two days to set up a date for that night, and she gives Quinn no guidance whatsoever with, "Whatever you wear will be fine!" Quinn opts for another dress, with black ankle boots this time to match her jacket, and she lets her hair hang messily around her shoulders.

She's standing in Frannie's miniscule bathroom in her miniature apartment in Santa Monica, finishing her make-up, when her sister knocks loudly on the door. Quinn rolls her eyes and says nothing.

"You know, when I said maybe you'll meet a nice girl at the strip club, I wasn't being serious," Frannie calls through the door.

Quinn scoffs. "That place can't be called a strip club."

She hears her sister's muffled hum of agreement and smiles.

Frannie's quiet, drumming her fingers against the wood until she says, "She's six years older than you, Luce. She's older than me."

"It's closer to five, which is nothing," Quinn argues. She caps her mascara and opens the door, and Frannie's standing there with a hand on her hip, searching Quinn's face.

Quinn lifts an impatient eyebrow and Frannie grins and says, "Hey, pretty girl."

It still makes her blush, every time, because she'd always looked up to her sister, who's standing in the middle of the narrow hallway in a UCLA sweatshirt and reading glasses, a bowl of Cheerios in her free hand.

"I'll be fine," Quinn insists, shuffling past her to the living room.

It's pale blue, full of character and maps, globes, and textbooks because of Frannie's Master's thesis on Barbary pirates, and Quinn drops onto the stripy couch to put on her boots.

Frannie sits opposite on the little yellow coffee table and says, "You don't know much about her."

"She's on Broadway."

"So you've said," Frannie intones.

Quinn meets her gaze stubbornly. "She's kind. She cares about strangers. She's _so_ talented, Frannie."

Her sister nods.

"And she's – she likes what I like. It was nice talking to her," Quinn says quietly. "And she's really…"

She trails off and purses her lips, feels her cheeks warm again. She redoes the zippers on her boots so she doesn't have to look at her sister.

Frannie chuckles, amused. "What, Lucy? Cute?"

Quinn tries to smother her smile by muttering, "Shut up."

She shoots up off the couch when the doorbell rings, and then doubles back to Frannie and gestures at her hair. Frannie's laughing when she brushes a blonde strand out of Quinn's eyes, examines her make-up and nods.

"All good, sweetie."

Quinn crosses the room, boots knocking against the battered hardwood, and opens the door.

Rachel's bubbly smile is the first thing she sees. She's in dark jeans and a brown jacket, boots with heels that almost have her at Quinn's height, and she offers a bouquet of purple flowers and greets, "You look lovely, Quinn."

Quinn envies her composure. She accepts the flowers and manages, "I – you do too. Thank you," and then steps back and gestures for Rachel to come in.

Quinn rolls her eyes when Frannie walks out of the kitchen with a sharp fruit knife in her hand.

"Rachel, this is my sister, Frannie," Quinn says, and Rachel's already stepping forward to shake Frannie's hand, smiling brightly.

"It's really nice to meet you."

Frannie seems surprised, like only parents should expect a handshake, but she returns it politely and says, "You too, Rachel."

She mouths, "Short," at Quinn when Rachel's facing the other way, and Quinn smiles.

"I love your apartment," Rachel remarks while Quinn's putting the flowers in a vase. "It's charming."

"It's like living in a shoebox." Frannie says. She gestures at the couch and continues, "Quinn slept there for the first week of summer, but she broke it one night –"

"I didn't _break_ it. It fucking collapsed," Quinn interjects, and Rachel laughs.

Frannie lifts both her hands. "Okay, it _broke_ one night, so we've been sharing a bed."

"Which is a nightmare," Quinn adds, nodding.

"Mostly for me," Frannie clarifies.

Quinn snorts at that because she knows it's true. She's a terrible blanket-stealing, fidgeting, cuddling bedmate and Frannie puts up with it every night that she's not with her boyfriend or opting for the floor.

"We're gonna go now," Quinn announces, moving for the door.

Frannie follows and says, "Rachel, you'll have her home by ten?"

Rachel's caught off guard. "Oh. That's – yes –"

"She's joking, Rachel," Quinn says, holding open the door. She shoots her sister a look. "Just being an idiot."

Rachel makes it out onto the landing, but Frannie tugs Quinn back inside. She's serious when she quietly requests, "If you decide not to come back tonight, text me, please."

Quinn nods.

"And be careful," Frannie kisses her cheek and lightly pushes her out the door. "I know you're clever, Luce."

Quinn smiles at her, thankful. Frannie seizes Rachel's wrist next and gently pulls her back inside, though her expression's warm and not threatening at all. Quinn rolls her eyes and waits patiently while her sister has a word with her date.

When Rachel emerges, she looks just as excited and composed as before, so Quinn isn't worried. They get out of the building and into a bright blue hatchback before Quinn asks, "So where are we going?"

Rachel glances at her, smiling. "Have you been to the Aero Theatre yet?"

Frannie had forced her to stay on the Santa Monica Ferris Wheel for about twelve revolutions, to hit every tourist spot and local bookstore in LA, but hadn't yet taken her to any theaters.

"I haven't."

"They like to feature a lot of directors and writers and things, mostly classic films," Rachel explains, turning onto a road that has them driving directly into the sunset. "Tonight there's one playing called _The Umbrellas of Cherbourg_, which is an entire story told through music and lyrics."

It's intriguing, and Quinn nods, pleased.

"I wrote a one-woman play when I was in high school that was entirely music and lyrics," Rachel states proudly. The shame only shows when she quietly admits, "It was about my headband collection, though."

Quinn laughs. "That fits with your Phantom story."

"Right. I don't know why I'm sharing these things. I usually don't."

Quinn's unsure how to take that, and they're both quiet and sort of blinded and squinting against the sun until Rachel turns off onto a smaller street and grins at her.

"It must be the pretty face."

Quinn's doubtful, but she accepts it with a small laugh. Rachel hums along with the radio until she parks against the curb, right outside a restaurant just called "John's." It's a neat little place, and Rachel takes Quinn's hand with a sweet smile and leads her through the crowd until they're seated on a patio outside, away from the din.

The first thing the waiter asks is if they'd like to try the drink of the night, a Bacardi mojito, and Rachel defers to Quinn for the answer, who falters. Rachel watches her, lips quirked, until Quinn says, "No, thank you."

They order quickly, and Quinn learns that Rachel's a vegan when she asks for vegetable pot pie and double checks with the waiter that no eggs were used in the crust. It makes Quinn hesitate when ordering the California cheesesteak, but Rachel insists, "No, no, get what you like!"

When the waiter's gone and they're left with water and lemonade, Rachel leans forward and says, "I'm not going to tell you what you can and can't drink, Quinn."

Quinn smiles at her. "I'm good with lemonade."

Rachel nods and slips her jacket off, and a small, golden star hangs around her neck.

"Do they not need you at the – your – " Quinn frowns, searching for the right word. "Your…club? Tonight?"

Rachel looks amused. "They don't really need me, ever. Jesse's got it."

"How long have you two been friends?"

"High school," Rachel says, and then chuckles. "We'd frequently challenge each other to vocal smackdowns."

"Which you'd win."

Rachel scoffs and flips her hair, which barely works because it's in a long plait over her shoulder. "Of course. Every single time."

Quinn smiles. "So do you have a permanent place out here? Or just in New York?"

"I do," Rachel nods, "but only because I've done some work on albums and little concerts in LA. I'm actually rarely ever here."

Quinn sips her lemonade and says, "Yeah, I was surprised. I've seen all your shows."

Rachel's eyebrows lift, delighted.

"I mean not – not just because of you," Quinn stammers, yet again, "They're really great shows."

"I know they are," Rachel laughs.

Quinn goes quiet then and Rachel watches her, still smiling, brown eyes reflecting the little twinkly lights around the patio. Quinn's running a hand through her hair when Rachel says, "You're really sweet."

Quinn has to smile, though her lips press together in protest. She meets Rachel's gaze and murmurs, "You are too," which elicits an even wider smile from her date.

She realizes that Rachel may be more open, more composed, but Quinn's here for a reason, and it's because Rachel Berry asked her to be, and she's interested and gorgeous and sitting here calling her sweet. She's Quinn Fabray, so she squares her shoulders and sets her hand on the table, a pretty blatant invitation, and says, "Tell me about _My Fair Lady_."

Rachel tips her head. "What would you like to know?"

Quinn's gaze has drifted away, thoughtful, when she feels Rachel's hand land on her own. She looks back and Rachel's smiling bashfully down at their fingers.

"You know it's based on _Pygmalion_, right? By George Bernard Shaw?" Quinn asks, unsurprised when Rachel nods.

"And Pygmalion was a sculptor in Greek mythology who fell in love with a statue he carved," Rachel adds.

"Right!" Quinn sits forward excitedly. "He claimed he wasn't interested in women, but then he carved one so beautiful and realistic that he fell in love with it."

Rachel chuckles. "Oops."

Quinn squeezes her hand. "He ended up getting Aphrodite to turn it into a real woman, and they lived happily ever after."

"He literally carved his wife out of stone," Rachel muses.

"Yeah, that – " Quinn shakes her head because she's gotten so far ahead of herself. She smiles and says, "Sorry, that has nothing to do with _My Fair Lady_."

"But it's fascinating!" Rachel declares, and now she's playing with a ring on Quinn's finger. "You clearly enjoy it."

Quinn knows it shows in her face, in her demeanor, because Frannie's told her the same thing countless times. She deliberately clears her throat and asks, "How did it feel filling Julie Andrews' shoes in _My Fair Lady_?" and Rachel's answer carries the conversation through dinner.

It makes things more clumsy, but they only release their hands in the gaps between the end of dinner and getting in the car, and then getting out of the car and sitting down in the theater. Quinn learns that Rachel's from Ohio too, that her dads are there, and that her favorite food is miniature tomatoes, which Quinn insists is ridiculous, but Rachel refuses to budge.

Rachel looks particularly pained when Quinn reveals that both her parents are in Ohio as well – as far as she knows – but she hasn't had any contact with her father in four years. It actually floors Quinn how caring and warm Rachel is about it.

She holds Rachel's hand through the film and smiles to herself when Rachel leans into her side about halfway through. It's a touching storyline, and Rachel definitely sniffles a bit against her shoulder, but what Quinn enjoys the most is sharing smothered laughter at how some of the dialogue comes out because it's all done in song.

At one point, they're cracking up so badly that Quinn sits up and manages, "Do you want any popcorn?" because she has to get out of there.

Rachel loudly whispers, "Bring me some tiny tomatoes," and Quinn slumps back in her seat, shoulders silently shaking.

By the time Rachel pulls up outside of her apartment building, Quinn's cheeks ache from smiling, something she'd never fathomed before. The building is pale yellow, so it tends to shine at night, and Quinn can see the light on in the living room on the second story, hidden by curtains.

Rachel turns the engine off and just looks at Quinn, a slight smile on her face.

"I'm really glad we stopped at your strip club, Rachel," is all Quinn can think to say.

"It's not a strip club."

Quinn nods, "Right, your _steakhouse_."

Rachel laughs shortly. "My…adult entertainment club of costumes and showtunes."

Quinn sighs, sad for the night to end. She's still holding Rachel's hand.

"It looks like your sister waited up for you," Rachel observes.

Quinn is unsurprised.

"I think it'd be nice to have a sibling like that," Rachel continues, gazing absently up at the lit window.

"Yeah," Quinn says softly.

"But, I mean, they would've stolen all of my thunder growing up, which wouldn't have been acceptable at all."

Quinn laughs, and it makes Rachel smile. The night had been an endless cycle of that.

"That child would not have done well." Quinn says, opening her door.

Rachel follows suit with, "I'll walk you up," and she hurries around the car and takes Quinn's hand. They take the steps silently, slowly, until they're standing next to Frannie's doormat – a school of blue fish with "HELLO" in a big thought bubble coming from a single red fish.

Rachel smiles down at it and stands in front of Quinn, holds both her hands.

"So…" Quinn licks her lips and meets Rachel's warm eyes. "Maybe I can take you out next time?"

Rachel smiles widely, swinging their hands. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Quinn murmurs, and she's so captivated by Rachel's dimples and her bubbly demeanor that she steps closer and tips her head down, but stops there.

She can hear Rachel swallow, smell her shampoo, which she'd gotten used to after having Rachel's head on her shoulder for over an hour.

"Quinn," Rachel breathes.

Quinn can tell that she's smiling, probably waiting patiently, so she closes the gap and kisses her. Rachel makes a delighted little noise and moves a hand up to Quinn's hip, under her jacket, the other to her hair. It's clumsy for a moment, as they work out which way to go, and Quinn's unsteady on her feet, but she moves a hand up to hold Rachel's neck, grazing her ear with her thumb.

They hit their stride then, and Rachel's lips are soft and delectable. Quinn enjoys the noises she makes, the breathless little whine as she presses harder, and she's proud of herself for eliciting them.

She's backing Rachel up towards the door, hand fisted in her brown jacket, when the light flickers on and off.

Rachel pulls back with a breathless laugh and Quinn holds onto her, shooting a glare at the peephole and the window and wherever the hell else Frannie could possibly be.

"I think your sister wants you to go in," Rachel says, and her lipstick's smudged, her jacket slightly askew.

Quinn's working on catching her breath. "Yeah."

She fixes Rachel's jacket and smiles at her, then kisses the corner of her mouth and says, "I'll see you soon?"

Rachel's beaming. "Definitely."

She heads back down the stairs without a goodbye, just a promise, and Quinn steps into her sister's apartment, happier than she's been in a while. Frannie's standing in the middle of the living room, grinning like a cat at Quinn's mussed hair and smudged lipstick.

"Have a good time?" she asks.

Quinn's face warms again, ears redden, and she wordlessly crosses the room and folds Frannie into a hug. Frannie returns it with a small, "Aw," and she pulls Quinn close and kisses the side of her head.

"You really like her, huh?"

Quinn doesn't know if she'll ever be able to wipe this smile off her face. She nods against Frannie's shoulder.

"Then I like her too," Frannie says. "Strip club and all."

Quinn pulls back and wipes at her mouth, further wrecking her lipstick situation. "I love you."

"I love you too, Luce." Frannie ruffles her hair and pulls her towards the bathroom. She opens the door and says, "Now get in there and fix your face."

Quinn does, but all she can manage to do for a minute is stare at her reflection. Her phone buzzes with a text – "Goodnight, Quinn" – from Rachel, with a smiley face, and Quinn returns the sentiment and drags a hand through her hair.

She looses a little laugh, so glad that she'd walked into Rachel's Adult Entertainment two days ago, the Broadway steakhouse with beautiful women and light-up poles that was definitely _not_ a strip club.


End file.
